Independence Day

15 July 2014

Independence Day

This seems to be the place where I come to miss my friend. I was just looking back through my recent lyrics, intending to post something new. Instead, I started with the one next in line after my last post, and it came flooding back to me so strongly that it has to be the one. I am thinking of my dear one’s deliverance, as there is really nothing more to hope for for him.

Curiously, my own world is flourishing. I am working very hard at something I love, my rain harp designs, and seeing more potential there every day. Others see it too, and are very supportive. It offers the possibility of being independent and mobile. The one hitch is that I still want a partner to do this with. Every aspect of it is well within my abilities; I just want someone to provide a little back-up when I am feeling discouraged or lazy. And ideas! Another set of eyes to see the answer to a problem when it goes invisible to me. It would also help if they appreciated my literary presence. It’s very spooky at times.

Now I’m looking at the poem I chose to post, and realizing that the spooky part begins right with the title. It is a line from a much earlier poem, long before I had a computer, so the paper file is the only place it exists, and I haven’t seen it in years. I’ve never forgotten the shock that came with this line—full-on gooseflesh, shudders, horripilation by the square yard. I was pretty sure at the time that the apport was me:

4 July 2014

4

Have You Ever Loved This Apported Creature?

She wanted to sing out again, as she will, of all she would do, if mere strength would suffice.
There you lie, small in one bed, though’s there plenty enough to fill acres and fields and sail twice
round the horn of the Moon, then race back on a rafter from off the top peak of the Mountain on Hy—
when long ago, forests and floodplains lay there, and we loved one another, and knew how to die
in gentle and manifold ways, hand-in-hand, fingers twined, softness breathing itself through our skins.
Let all the young ones chant love stories now, but ours is alive, and it scarcely begins
before at least half of its partners goes living a far ways away, calling home on and on,
fearing that no one is there who will listen, but knows—really knows—not one soul’s ever gone
out of listening range. We initiate contact, which might have been done long ago, truth be told,
then maintain the line—so what if dirt hates it. We’re live human beings; our wings cannot fold
because we’re not birds; we are vivid with angels, and everyone else—stands apart and the same.
I just don’t know who you are sometimes, really; you’re beautiful; so is pure absence of blame.
Wanting to sing, she can never die easy, but she can assist you if death’s called you nigh.
Up in the rafters, one swift little glance—let’s loft away, love, on a spiralling sigh.
Apported I was, from the place I called home. I knew it as rapture—ongoing—and bliss.
You have dealt such a strong blow to my long sense of home. If I’m leaving, I’m leaving you this.

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About J

Just poetry, in several forms.
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